


Feel Hunger At Last

by LoveEffect



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Food Issues, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Trying His Best, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jaskier has a hard time eating, M/M, Making Up, Starvation, barely proofread, fuck the canon timeline though, it's more likely than you think, me? pushing my issues with food onto a fictional character?, only at the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22907584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveEffect/pseuds/LoveEffect
Summary: It's been a year since Jaskier last saw Geralt, and the Nilfgaardians want to know where he and his child surprise are. Geralt wants to know when Jaskier lost all this weight, and tries to get Jaskier's strength back up while also fixing what he broke. They've been apart for a while though, it doesn't go as smoothly as either of them want it to.It's a vent fic. Title from Battle Cries by The Amazing Devil.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 763





	Feel Hunger At Last

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Feel Hunger At Last](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27614522) by [AllenTraduction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllenTraduction/pseuds/AllenTraduction)



> Content warnings: previous torture (described rather clinically in the first paragraph), bruises and injuries and body descriptions through the entire fic, Jaskier has issues with food now because of combination depression and his body just not being used to eating anymore, and food is mentioned and described through the entire fic.

Jaskier has been in this room for nearly a fortnight now. Thankfully, the Nilfgaardians had given up their more painful tactics of information gathering after the first week. Now, he was simply bait. His body still aches something fierce, shoulders stinging from where they’re held up by the chains keeping him against the wall of the cell, ribs sore from previous kicks, stomach protesting punches and the near-complete lack of food. His captors gave him a slice of unleavened bread every few days. Thankfully, they were a bit more generous with water, though Jaskier doesn’t particularly enjoy how his body keeps the chill with now nearly nothing wrapped around his bones.

He can hear the fighting outside, the screaming of fallen soldiers as they’re methodically cut through. Jaskier had his breakdown four days ago over the pain and the hunger and the waiting and the knowing that no one would ever come back for him. Thus, it’s a bit of a shock when one Geralt of Rivia unlocks the cell door with shaking hands, bloody and cursing. Not much though. Everything is rather delightfully numb at the moment. Warm, bordering on burning hot fingers brush against his wrists as Geralt swiftly unlocks the shackles. Jaskier hisses as his shoulders finally release.

“Oh gods, Jaskier, how many months have they had you,” Geralt asks, eyes running over Jaskier’s uncovered and heavily bruised torso, lingering on newly visible bones. His hands hover over Jaskier, afraid to touch in case he only makes things worse. Jaskier scoffs harshly.

“Two weeks,” he says, voice pitchy and cracking from the hours of screaming followed by days of silence.

“You look like you haven’t had a solid meal in three months,” Geralt says, gripping Jaskier under the arms to haul him upright and keep him steady.

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you don’t have a steady supply of food for a year,” Jaskier says with a snarl, baring his teeth at Geralt, who only looks more concerned. “Oh, don’t look like you care _now_ , you’re the one who spat at me and told me to leave you be. People don’t pay for melancholy bards, Geralt.” He isn’t lying, not at all, but he hasn’t been horribly pressed for coin since Geralt left. Quite the opposite, in fact. Ballads of heartbreak are nearly always in style at courts all over the Continent, it’s just hard to force yourself to eat when it tastes like little more than sawdust and you were never really hungry in the first place.

The witcher merely swallows and lets out a shaking breath before he starts leading Jaskier out of the appropriated manor, making a quick stop for Jaskier to retrieve his chemise and doublet. He can only find half of his jewelry—thieving bastards. Geralt’s eyes linger on the rings and the delicate crystal in Jaskier’s ear for a moment before moving back to Jaskier’s side, supporting the little weight the bard has left.

He lets Jaskier ride on Roach as they walk to the nearby town, perpetually ready to steady the bard should he begin to falter. Roach keeps her gait even and smooth, and Jaskier coos at her and runs a hand over her neck in appreciation.

“I don’t know how to properly apologize,” Geralt says, sounding strained if not downright pained. They can see the buildings of the town lit by the moon, peeking up from the crest of a hill. “I don’t know how to make things right. Knowing that I spoke in anger and lied and pushed you away to keep from losing you later doesn’t erase the year of pain I’ve caused.”

“It sure fucking doesn’t,” Jaskier snarls, jaw clenched. “I gave up on ever speaking to you again half a year ago, you don’t get to waltz in and talk around an apology after a year and a daring rescue,” he says with his barbed tongue, venom dripping off every word. He takes no small amount of glee seeing Geralt wince.

“I am sorry,” Geralt says quietly, and Jaskier tries to not let his heart soften but after all this time he still does love the man.

“I told them it was useless using me as bait. I really didn’t think you’d bother,” he says, forced coldness in his tone. Geralt looks back at him and if Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d describe his expression as mournful.

“I rode straight here from Vizima as soon as I overheard that Nilfgaard had captured a bard in Velen for information.”

“That’s a two-week ride.”

“Roach is fast,” Geralt says simply. Jaskier gives her extra pets as they approach the inn. He nearly hisses at Geralt as he helps him down, having grown accustomed to more animalistic expressions over the weeks of captivity and months of scaring away would-be muggers.

He gets to sit quietly in a corner as Geralt approaches the innkeeper with a request for food and beds, though he nearly dozes off before Geralt returns with bowls of thick hearty stew. Jaskier looks at Geralt with a deadpan expression, then starts pushing the stew around with his spoon, giving himself the pretense of allowing it to cool off. He forces a few mouthfuls once Geralt starts to look at him with confusion and concern. It tastes… fine. He picks a large chunk of unidentifiable meat and sticks it in his mouth so he can just chew for a while and not overtax his stomach after two weeks and maybe a full loaf of dense bread.

Geralt pins him with an unidentifiable expression. Jaskier avoids his eyes, chewing his bite into a paste and staring into the hearth.

“If you can stomach eating half of that, we can head upstairs,” Geralt says quietly. “I had them draw a bath, and I have some chamomile oil. Should help with the bruising.” Jaskier swallows thickly and stares into his bowl. It’s not a very big bowl, but half is still a lot of stew.

In the end, Geralt decides that a third of the bowl is good enough—possibly because Jaskier starts to look a bit upset, staring at the bowl with furrowed brows and holding a hand to his aching stomach. He tries to help Jaskier stand, but the bard bares his teeth once again.

“I’m not an _invalid_ , Geralt,” he spits out under his breath, mindful of the other patrons already keeping an eye on them for the simple fact of Geralt being a witcher. No need to give them any possible reason to chase them out of town. He can feel Geralt’s hand hovering over his lower back as they climb the stairs and he represses the urge to snap and snarl.

The room is pleasantly warm and humid from the tub. Geralt rummages through his bag, pulling out several unlabeled vials and jars, and Jaskier simply starts stripping himself of his golden ornaments, placing them on top of the wardrobe. He’s half undressed when Geralt approaches too quickly and Jaskier takes a half step back, hunching slightly and lip curling into a sneer which stops Geralt up short. He shows his hands, one holding an open jar of chamomile oil that Jaskier can just faintly smell. Jaskier doesn’t move, eyes flickering between the oil and Geralt. He doesn’t want his hands on him, feigning familiarity and pretending that nothing happened, that the past year was nothing.

“Please,” Geralt says, sounding nearly broken, and Jaskier finally notices the clench in his jaw that he always had whenever Jaskier would get himself hurt while following after him like an idiot duckling. “Please let me ease a little bit of the pain I’ve caused,” he says, and the pathetic mud walls that Jaskier has been trying to build around himself all day come crumbling down. He’s always forgiven too easily.

He slowly settles on a stool and Geralt approaches even slower, settling on his knees and reaching for Jaskier’s wrist, waiting for him to breach the gap. He does, and Geralt begins to massage oil into the angry marks left by the shackles. He tenderly cares for Jaskier’s arms and legs before looking up again, catching Jaskier’s eyes to silently ask permission before touching his torso. He nods and tries not to cringe away as gentle, warm fingers skim across the outline of his ribs.

“We should have gone to the coast,” Geralt murmurs when he finishes applying oil to every visible bruise, resting his hands on the jut of hipbones.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” Jaskier whispers, closing his eyes. He’s so exhausted, physically and emotionally, and he knows if Geralt continues saying things like that, he’ll get weepy sooner rather than later. Geralt skims a hesitant hand over the beard that had grown in on Jaskier’s jaw before helping him from the stool into the tub, and Jaskier nearly moans at the heat finally seeping into his bones.

“I am an idiot, and we should have gone to the coast,” Geralt repeats slowly. Jaskier looks at him, not expecting the vulnerability in Geralt’s expression.

“I expect it’s a bit late for that,” Jaskier says, and Geralt nods.

“Maybe I’m too late to accompany you to the coast, but maybe you could accompany me to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says, moving slowly to take Jaskier’s hand, playing with the clever fingers he’s heard play more instruments than he can name. “There’s someone there who’d love to meet you properly. She’s the one who knocked some sense into me, after all.” Jaskier frowns for a moment.

“You claimed your child surprise?” he asks, and Geralt nods.

“Cintra fell, nearly with Cirilla still in it. I got her, took her to the fortress, and she said, ‘if you don’t go find the bard that you’re in love with, I will scream until your ears bleed and not read a single one of Vesemir’s books.’” Geralt looks at Jaskier, tight-lipped and tense, and Jaskier just smiles softly.

“Sounds like a smart girl, knowing how you feel when I doubt you even knew it at the time,” he says, curling his fingers slightly around Geralt’s, soaking in the smile it elicits.

“I really didn’t. Like I said, I am an idiot,” he says.

Jaskier lets him wash his hair for him without protest. It’s gotten longer than he usually allows it, and Geralt cleans it with gentle but firm fingers and ties it back into a low ponytail. They fall asleep tucked up against each other, like they have many a cold night on the road. He doesn’t dream, and he wakes slow and sticky to the feel of a hand passing through his hair and the smell of food. Geralt holds a plate with a full spread on it, and Jaskier grimaces.

“I’ll eat whatever you don’t,” he says, and Jaskier relaxes. “Don’t push yourself, but eat as much as you can, alright?”

The next few weeks fall into a pattern of Geralt coaxing Jaskier to eat more and more as they keep heading north, occasionally pressing too hard and Jaskier snapping and snarling back before they settle back into equilibrium. Geralt can’t hide the concern on his face when Jaskier stops eating and shoves a full half of his portion over to Geralt, but Jaskier can’t help how his throat and stomach protest the food, can’t help how his mind seethes at the mere taste of it.

They’re a week out from Kaer Morhen when Geralt tries a new tactic. Jaskier offers his half-full bowl of rabbit stew, and Geralt gently pushes it back.

“You need to eat more. You’re still skin and bone,” Geralt says quietly. “Once winter hits, the mountain pass to Kaer Morhen gets blocked off by snow. I’ll not have you freezing,” he says. Jaskier bites his tongue and settles the bowl back in his lap.

It takes him an hour to finish the rest of the soup, and his jaw stays fused shut for the rest of the night, curling into himself rather than Geralt in their bedroll. Of course, they tangle together in their sleep, but Jaskier is still quiet and subdued in the morning. He chokes down two thirds of his breakfast, scowling at the rations, and Geralt runs his fingers through the bard’s hair and presses a small kiss to his hairline. He whispers apologies and platitudes and praises that have Jaskier shaking in his arms, boney fingers scrambling for purchase on Geralt’s shirt.

“What do you need?” Geralt asks, nearly pleading. “Is it the taste, the texture? We can pick up spices in the next town,” he offers, and Jaskier just shakes his head.

“No point in wasting money on spices or meat,” he says, voice flat with resignation. “Not when it all just tastes weird and muted.” Geralt lets out a soft sigh.

“What’s easiest to swallow, then?” he asks, and Jaskier blinks at him for a moment, surprised that Geralt wasn’t going to protest the point he initially thought as the problem, pleased that he was actually listening.

“Breads and broths, mostly, but those aren’t exactly feasible on the road,” he says.

“It’s entirely feasible. Rations spaced out with fruit, and broth’s easier to make than you think. Easier even than stew.” Jaskier makes a little sound at how simple Geralt makes everything seem, how willing he is to accommodate Jaskier. “Though you’ll still have to eat a bit of meat, you really do need the energy,” Geralt finishes, and Jaskier nods in agreement.

By the time they reach Kaer Morhen, Jaskier no longer looks quite like a stiff breeze could knock him over, though he’s still definitely much thinner than anyone would like. His smiles come a bit easier, and he greets Cirilla with an overdramatic flowery bow fitting of a princess, though she just barrels into him for a hug.

Geralt doesn’t get mad a few days later when bread is too much to handle, when even watered-down broth is revolting. He stays at Jaskier’s side throughout the day, giving details of past hunts and expounding on the differences between a ghoul and a graveir. He makes sure there’s soft bread within arms reach for whenever Jaskier’s mind stays quiet long enough for him to manage a few bites, and he smiles softly at his bard every time he does.

Once the snows begin and a few other witchers arrive to winter at the fortress, Jaskier finally has some muscle back, enthusiastically carrying Ciri around and smiling and singing at the top of his lungs as the fancy strikes him. Geralt peppers the back of his neck with kisses when Jaskier hunches over a parchment for too long, agonizing over internal rhyme. Every single witcher, when given kitchen duty, wordlessly makes sure there’s fresh bread and broth, just in case it happens to be a bad day for the bright little songbird making their brother so happy.

Every once in a while, Jaskier gets cagey and keyed up, used to having more things to do and more energy to do things with, and Geralt starts giving him his space after hearing the choked off growl in the bard’s throat. The third time it happens, Lambert brings him out to the courtyard with the offer of distraction, then simply mirrors Jaskier’s guarded stance.

“You’ve got pent up energy, this is how witchers burn that energy off. You can’t hurt me, and I can make sure you don’t get hurt,” he says, only adding the last sentence for Geralt’s benefit, who’s lurking in the shadows nearby, loathe to leave Jaskier out of his sight for too long. Jaskier simply stands, shifting uneasily, so Lambert gives a couple false approaches, keeping his snarl closer to a smile. He advances too quickly and Jaskier skitters out of the way, circling into Lambert’s blind side.

The tense back and forth continues for a few minutes with neither of them touching, testing Lambert’s patience. Once they’re both properly on edge and snarling, they finally slam into each other, Lambert restraining his strength and encouraging Jaskier to use all of his. Once Jaskier is exhausted and panting, Lambert pins him in a gentle lock, keeping the bard still until the adrenaline fades a bit for both their safety. Once he lets go, Jaskier looks much calmer, albeit still out of breath, and Lambert starts teaching him holds and attacks for unarmed fighting.

“You’re already halfway there,” Lambert says, peering at Jaskier’s face set in a concentrated scowl. “Intimidation is most of the battle, looking near feral will make many fights never happen.”

“I know,” Jaskier says, allowing a flash of melancholy. “Why do you think I picked it up?” Lambert gently cuffs him on the back of the neck, then thrusts a waterskin and the day’s fresh bread into Jaskier’s hands, and for once it’s simple and effortless to swallow.

Once the pass clears in the spring, Jaskier finally looks how he used to, with even more muscle from sparring with Lambert and helping Ciri with her training. At night, Geralt runs his hands over muscular thighs, worrying light bruises with his teeth now that his bard no longer looks _fragile._ He looks strong and _alive_ as he and Geralt take each other apart to put each other back together, nestled close in dim light and safety.


End file.
